


Adamant War

by Puncherofdragons, TheHatMeister



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer Age of Sigmar - Fandom
Genre: Gen, The vampire in the prologue's named Melusine btw, we're not done with her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-08-10 14:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puncherofdragons/pseuds/Puncherofdragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatMeister/pseuds/TheHatMeister
Summary: I plan to make this an action-heavy story about a Stormcast Eternal character and the people around him, but I haven't gotten any further than a prologue. Gonna edit this to something actually useful as I go.Expect lots of violence and themes of reincarnation and a smidge or two of gay as the story progresses.





	1. Prologue: Last Stand of Carver Askon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the mountains of Chamon, a warrior gives his life in the hope of buying his tribe time to escape the ravages of a vampire. It's a hopeless struggle, and he knows it, but it's better that he dies than the vampire runs amok through innocents.
> 
> For that, a single life is a small price.

To his own ears, Askon’s breathing sounded a deathrattle, and yet he could not yield. His arm trembled, but he raised his sword, blinked to clear encroaching black from his eyes. The fiend swam into focus, a self-satisfied little smile on her lips. “No further,” Askon said with what was left of his voice. “You go no further as I breathe.”

“That won’t be too long now, will it?” The vampire answered, looking Askon up and down with fever-bright eyes. “Your condition is plain to the eye. If I know anything about anatomy, you shouldn’t be standing at all.”

“I…” Askon winced. His broken ribs shifted, sent shocks of pain through him and robbed him of breath. “I stand not with my own strength.” He squared his shoulders, straightened his back. He bit back wracking pain. Every muscle burst aflame at even the smallest movement. “I stand for my tribe, for my kin and my home.” A tribe in flight. A home emptied of life. Still, the thought gave heart. Askon stood for them. He stood for the Itverenki, that some might escape and make new lives, far from the soulblight and their hunger. He stood for every tribe in the Adamant Heights.

He’d die standing for them. He’d made his choice, he and the other warriors. They’d weighed their lives against the rest of the tribe’s. Dying to let them escape, to let there be even a chance of escape, was a small price by any measure. And they’d kept that oath. All save Askon lay dead now. Blood trickled between gaps in the rubble, fresh as well as rotten, and mangled limbs poked forth here and there. The ruins Askon made his stand on were flesh as much as stone and wood. He was the last, but every face was still clear in his mind.

His mother Ea, refusing to look away despite the tears in her eyes, her hands trembling as they let go of his. Ekjan, pointing out zombies with his spear and giving them crude nicknames. Old Bann many years ago, stiff-backed upon the field before the village, harsh voice beating rabble into warriors. Kal and Enni, Askon’s little cousins, laughing and leaping into hay-bales from high places, flapping their arms and pretending to be Chamhawks.

And Brom. Brom of the Eseni. Brom with nimble hands and eyes narrow from laughter. Brom scaling cliff-faces for the sheer fun of it and daring Askon to follow. Brom leaning against him when the fire burned low and speaking in a soft voice.

Brom who Askon was dying for.

“I stand for things you cannot comprehend,” he rasped. “You are a leech, a low, loathsome creature. You do naught but take, sow nothing but terror and misery. You are the worst in all humanity, the scum of the Realms made flesh. I fear you not. I have not ever feared you, nor any of your ilk. You are not worthy of fear, only disgust. Only contempt.” Askon let his sword sink down, gestured with the tip to a smear of gore and char. “We taught your kinsman that.” His eyes didn’t leave the vampire a second.

“Well, yes, you slew poor Garrebor,” said the vampire, unshaken, meeting his gaze. “And it cost you a dozen fresh warriors, your little shaman...” She whipped her sword from its sheath quicker than Askon’s eyes could follow, pointed the tip at the stump of his left forearm. “Your own hand too,” she added with a grin.

Askon grimaced, and not only with pain. The soulblight hadn’t risen to the bait, not like he’d hoped. What else could he do? How could he buy more time? Now that he’d lowered his sword, he wasn’t sure he could raise it again. He felt like he had lead for bones and mud for flesh. It took willpower to open his eyes after blinking. And his missing hand itched, right between the third and fourth fingers. It’d been hours since he’d lost it, and still his hand itched like a hundred little ants were crawling over it. Insult to injury.

Hounded and harrowed and beaten and broken, Askon turned his eyes to the heavens. The stars were coming out, High Sigendil brightest of all. Azyr looked down with countless, gleaming eyes. Azyr was always there. Azyr and its ruler, the Hero-Hammer. He wasn’t alone. “Sigmar…” he murmured, “Breaker of Chains, Chief of Chiefs, Great Uniter, I pray that you hear me.” Askon shaped the words, but he didn’t know if he gave them sound. He didn’t know if he could anymore. “I pray that my folk be safe,” he continued. “I pray that the souls of those already lost find rest. Mine own strength, the strength of my kin-in-arms, was not enough. We are undone. Let it not be in vain, Highest of the High. Let some escape the teeth of the world. Let them live on. I know it is much to ask, but...” He drew in shuddering breath. “Please…”

A tapping, quick and insistent, pulled Askon back to reality. Sluggish, he swung his head to the source. The vampire, hands on her hips. She stilled her foot. “Are you quite done?” she asked. “You stood so still I was beginning to wonder if you’d died and forgot to tell me. Have you any idea how rude that would be? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Let’s get this over with.”

The vampire slashed her sword up so quick Askon heard it whistle through the air even where he stood, and she began to hiss. The sound grated against Askon’s ears, made his skin crawl. Nausea coated the back of his throat. Amethyst fog spilled from the vampire’s mouth, crept along the ground. Tendrils snaked their way into the rubble. Out the corner of his eye, Askon saw a stray arm twitch. Then another.

The rubble shifted, more and more dead flesh breaking through, dust-smeared and bloody. Blind hands groped. Fingers locked about Askon’s legs. He kicked on desperate instinct, but loose stone shifted beneath his feet, sent him crashing onto his back. Air was punched from his lungs, ribs crunched.

Askon lay gasping for breath as the dead shed their makeshift tombs and loomed over him. Ekjan stood there, brains oozing from a cloven skull. Korgelt, pierced through the heart. Ranku, entrails hanging about his knees like a skirt of worms. And more. Far more. Both the Itverenki and the zombies they’d slain rose again, circling Askon, casting him into shadow, pinning his arms and legs with a dozen hands, wrenching his sword from numb fingers.

But still he could see the stars. He looked past the dead, and up. “Brom…” he breathed. “Sigmar…”

“Oh no,” said the vampire, and the zombies parted to let her through. “There’s no Sigmar here, pet. Only me.” She bent down, gaunt face hovering mere inches above Askon’s. A cruel grin pulled her thin lips taut, bared her fangs.

Askon jerked his head to the side, eyes seeking the heavens. Better to spend his last sight looking at the stars, than into the eyes of a monster. Looking at the stars, and hoping his prayer had been heard. Hoping they looked down on him too.

The only sort of answer he got was from the vampire. She snorted and straightened and took a step back. And jabbed the tip of an armoured boot into the stump of Askon’s arm, and twisted it in hard. He twitched. He would have jumped. He would have jerked his whole frame away. But he was tired. He was wounded. The zombies pinned him down. All he could do was stare upwards with eyes thrown wide, and pray inwardly. Pain tore through him in stinging lances, and he gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter.

“Come now,” said the vampire, as if to a loyal hound, and ground her boot into the wound. Blood spurted out, one spray hitting her knee. “It’s only the two of us, no need for the brave face. Give me a scream.”

“Sig...Mar…”

The vampire’s grin faded. Instead, her mouth twisted, sour and disappointed. Askon allowed himself some satisfaction at that. Frowning, the vampire slid her sword into its sheath. “Well, I must be going. I wish I could say it’s been fun,” she said, stepping past Askon and waving to the zombies. “Finish him, would you be so kind?”

And so they did.

Teeth tore at Askon, fingers scratched. But he didn’t feel it, not truly. Not anymore. He’d known death was coming ever since the vampires drew near. The manner of it mattered little. His death mattered so very little compared to the cause he gave it for. The fog of pain lifted, even as he bled his last. He saw clearly again. He could still see the stars. Brom had always liked the stars. He could see them tonight, and many more nights to come, Askon hoped. That was a good cause.

Askon sighed and closed his eyes as teeth dug into his throat.

The last thing he felt was peace.


	2. Forged in the Heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Stormcast Eternal wakes, freshly reforged.

Waking felt like shedding a blanket of dark, heavy loam. He sat up and yawned and blinked and rubbed his face and scratched his beard. The world blurred into focus as he shook off the last tatters of sleep. He was in a room, it seemed like, and quite a nice one, with a high ceiling, smooth, flagged stone floors and sturdy-looking furniture. There was something strange, though, on the wall across from where he sat. A pair of taps, and a basin below them, protruding from the wall. They looked much like the ones found on barrels, save they were metal, not wood, and fastened directly to the stone

He stood, brows furrowed, and stopped. He felt something through the soles of his feet. A rumble. Faint, like distant thunder. He took a few, experimental steps. The feeling was everywhere in the room. He even felt it in the wall, when he put his hand against it. The room shook. Every fine, dressed stone shook.

What was this place? How had he come here? He could only recognize one thing. On the azure tunic he was wearing, right above the heart, he found an embroidery in silver thread. A twin-tailed comet. Whatever this place was, it was Sigmar’s. It couldn’t mean him harm.

He took a deep, calming breath. This place was Sigmar’s. Whatever the reason he was here, it wasn’t malicious. He had faith. One could overcome much with patience and faith. He scratched his left hand - it itched terribly, for whatever reason - and turned towards the taps. One mystery at a time.

He stepped over to inspect them. He had to stoop to get a close enough look, and sighed in annoyance. Nothing was ever built with someone his size in mind. He stopped, frowning at himself. He’d stood like this before, bending beneath a low roof, or ducking to avoid a doorframe. He’d stood like this hundreds of times. And now he’d woken in a foreign, luxurious room with no memory of how he came there, and a floor that felt like walking on solid storm clouds. And he still had to stoop to reach anything.

Shaking his head, he focused on the taps again. The left was marked with a dab of red paint, the right with blue. Slow, as if handling a skittish animal, he reached towards the right tap, and put his hand on the valve. He turned it with bated breath. Nothing happened. Then water trickled out, crystal clear, and fell into the basin like gentle rain. He smothered a gasp, eyes going wide. Water from nowhere. What sorcery was this?

The quiet ended.

Someone pounded on the door and he nearly jumped out of his skin. His hand jerked on the valve, turning the stream of droplets into a thumb-thick jet, hammering the basin. Water went up the edges in sheets, splattering everywhere. And all the while, a voice was shouting into the room. “Have you woken yet?” A woman’s voice, strong and resonant. “Or must I shake you from your cot?!”

“One moment!” he shouted back, tunic growing wetter by the second.

“I am entering now! I know you’re awake!”

“No-!”

But it was too little, too late. Before he could stop the raging torrent spewing from the tap, he heard the door swing open, and the sound of steps. Desperation lent him strength. He wrenched the valve hard, heard a snap. The water quieted, first to a drip, then to nothing at all. He turned towards his guest, valve still in hand.

She was olive skinned, with a broad, well-muscled build, but still far smaller than him. She had to crane her neck for her golden eyes to find his face. “Are you winning?” she asked with an amused little smile, and put the food-laden tray she’d been carrying on the table.

He found a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “The beast is vanquished.”

She laughed, taking a step towards him. “Well, allow me to introduce myself, o victor. I am Lyconida Blade-breaker.” She extended a hand.

He clasped her forearm in return. “I am…” And he trailed off, staring into nothing. What was his name? Did he even have a name? Sigendil’s light, why couldn’t he think of a name?

“Think, brother,” Lyconida urged, squeezing his forearm. “Close your eyes and reach into memory.”

He did as bidden, and soon reality fell away. He saw dozens of faces, heard dozens of voices. Children running through a field. Warriors about a fire. A woman with grey in her hair. A tattooed man with eyes the color of the sky. They shouted and laughed and whispered and spoke, and in the noise, he managed to latch onto something. Something repeated again and again. A name. It had to be a name. The sound he heard didn’t fully match the movement of their lips, but it had to be a name. His name.

”Iskorion,” he said, slow, tasting the name, tasting identity, and cracked his eyes open. “I am Iskorion, sister.”

Smiling in earnest, Lyconida clapped her free hand to his upper arm. “Well met, Iskorion. It’s good you are finally here.” She let go, gestured to food she’d carried in. “You must have questions. Sit and eat, and I will answer as I am able.”

Iskorion truly saw the food for the first time, and felt his mouth water. The centerpiece was a bowl big enough to pass for a pot, filled to the brim with thick, wine-coloured broth. Chunks of chicken and mushrooms broke the surface. Flat, crusty bread lay beside the bowl, and behind stood a goblet and a carafe with deep, red wine. His stomach growled as he sat, and Lyconida made a face halfway between amusement and concern, taking a seat opposite.

Iskorion blinked, and the tray was clean and he felt full. He wiped his beard with a cloth, folded his hands. “I am a Stormcast Eternal,” he said, to his own surprise. “Chosen for the Hallowed Knights, as Lord-Castellant. Am I to join your Chamber once my trials are completed?”

Lyconida nodded. She was leaned back into the chair, just shy of a slouch. “Aye. You will be one of my Blade-breakers.”

“You are Lord-Celestant?”

“I am.”

Iskorion bowed his head. “I look forward to serving at your side, lord. It will be an honour to stand as your shield.”

“You’re eager!” Lyconida said with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “It’ll be a while yet. We need you armed and armoured and trained and tried. To start, what say you you tell me what you know, that we might move on the quicker?”

What he knew? He stared down at his hands. There were things in his mind he hadn’t thought of before, surfacing now, like worms summoned by rain. Names and titles and formations. His head burned with knowledge. Conclaves and Temples and retinues and brotherhoods. Memories from nowhere. Bastion plate and warding lanterns and shockbolt bows.

“I know what we are,” Iskorion said, rubbing one thumb along the other. “We are deathless wrath, the vengeance of the God-King given flesh. Given life and given life again, that we might never falter against the dark, no matter the forces arrayed against us. I know our purpose and our duty. I know what is at stake, too...” He trailed off, into silence. His thoughts felt heavy, all of a sudden.

“Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,” said Lyconida, placing her hand atop his. “That is the first of the Canticles of Faith. First and foremost. To be an Eternal is continuous sacrifice, but it is the greatest and most worthy sacrifice of all. You are here because Sigmar Himself saw the strength of your soul. Because He chose you. I’ve faith He was not mistaken.”

Iskorion met her eyes, and found them golden-warm. “Thank you, lord. Sister. Your kind words are well received.”

She gave only a smile for an answer, and rose. “Come,” she said. “Let us get you to the armouries. It’s a sad Eternal who’s without their wargear.” She turned to the door, waving for Iskorion to follow.

He did, and found himself in a corridor. It stretched far both left and right, studded with doors. Here and there, stairs lead up and down. If each door lead to a room like his, how many Eternals were there? Could it be more than a thousand? Iskorion’s mind reeled with sheer possibility. Ten thousand?

But he had no time to gawk. Lyconida was already off. She didn’t walk so much as march. Her steps were quick and sure, as if she didn’t even consider that something might bar her path, and her eyes were fixed firmly ahead. She set a harsh pace, nearly a run, but Iskorion found that not only could he keep up, he wasn’t getting winded. How long could he sustain this speed? Hours? Days? It’d be fun, testing what his new body was capable of.

The corridor lead them to a hall, and Iskorion stopped in his tracks. It was wide enough for a warband to walk abreast, lined with stone statues taller than towers, stern-faced and warlike. An army of saints, watching over all who passed below. Their robes had all the folds and creases of real cloth, and Iskorion could pick out individual hairs in the eyebrows on the nearest one. At first glance, he even thought he saw its lips part for breath.

Wresting his eyes from the statues, Iskorion saw that they were far from alone in the halls. Others marched and strode and walked, in ones and twos or small groups. Fellow Eternals, judging by their builds, though there were some few dwarfs among them. Most wore the same azure as Iskorion and Lyconida, Hallowed Knights like them, but theirs was not the only Stormhost present. Iskorion spotted the gold of the Hammers of Sigmar, the purple of the Astral Templars, the white of the Knights Excelsior, and many others.

Lyconida punched him in the shoulder, ending his stupor. “If you keep your mouth open like that, a spider will nest in it,” she said with a grin, already moving again. “Come. You will make it with some determination.”

Iskorion tried to apologize, but all that came out of his mouth was a half-formed mumble. He sighed and started after Lyconida.

A little way further, they passed a retinue on the march. A retinue in the silver armour of the Hallowed Knights, shields on their backs and hammers at their waists, fierce war-masks fixed straight ahead. Every heartbeat, sigmarite boots struck the floor in perfect lock-step, and shook the hall. A lightning bolt marked one pauldron, and a sunburst the other. Liberators, then, of a Chamber Iskorion didn’t know.

“Ho, Gallikaus!” Lyconida called.

The prime, a plume on his helm, raised a fist, and the retinue stomped to a halt. “Blade-breaker!” he, Gallikaus, exclaimed, turning his head. Iskorion felt a tinge unnerved to hear him speak. To hear a happy voice come from the grim face of his war-mask. “It has been too long.”

Lyconida’s smile was a plain to the eye. “Indeed it has, and it seems it will be longer still. Where are you headed, Stone-shield?”

“We go to Ghyran. The rotbringers press our kindred hard. The Dawn’s Light has been called.”

“Give old Perrestos my regards.” She raised her voice to a clarion call. “Who shall scour the wicked and the foul from all the Realms!?”

“Only the faithful!” the retinue boomed in a single voice. Gallikaus shouted an order, and, with all the ease of a well-oiled machine, his warriors picked up the march.

Iskorion stepped out of their way, and looked at Lyconida. “He is a friend of yours?” 

“Aye. We have fought together.” She followed Gallikaus’ retinue with her eyes until they passed out of sight, looked down the hall for several moments more. “Ask me nicely, and I may share the tale. But not today.” She smiled, but looked more grieved than happy. Iskorion had seen that look before, on old warriors, speaking of comrades now dead. Strange to see it now, on a face free of wrinkles and grey hair.   
  
Silence stretched uncomfortably long. Iskorion cleared his throat. “How far yet to the armoury?” he asked.

“Not much,” Lyconida answered, terse.

They spoke no more words for the rest of the walk. Iskorion’s thoughts ran in rings. Around every corner was some new wonder, something to boggle the mind with grandeur. Every need seemed to be cared for. Everyone they passed looked hale and hearty. But how deep did the miracles run? What could harrow the Stormcast Eternals, blessed with immortality and dwelling in a palace among the stars? What had Lyconida-

Iskorion nearly bowled her over as she came to a halt. “This is the place,” she said, and put a hand on a door handle. The double doors were plain by the measure of the Sigmarabulum, marked with the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights.

With a slowness bordering on ritual, Lyconida pushed the doors open, and Iskorion thought he saw an army waiting for them inside. Armour stood in silent ranks. War-masks met them with sockets full of shadows. This was what the enemies of Sigmar saw, then. A wall of implacable anger, etched onto faces of sacred sigmarite. Nothing human. Nothing that would ever yield. Nothing that had mercy.

And yet, Iskorion felt a pull. Something in there, among the waiting blades, was calling for him, waiting for him. He took the first step without realizing. He took the next by his own will. The pull wasn’t anything physical, but it was urgent all the same. His heart quickened. His eyes ranged over sets of war-plate, each of identical silver-and-azure, but none were what he sought.

He went deeper. The only sound was his bare feet whispering across stone floors. The only light was from dim, white lanterns. And yet, Iskorion knew where he went. Exactly twenty-three rows down, he turned to the left, and went to the seventeenth stand. He sighed shakily. Something stirred in him, not unlike the joy of reunion.  _ His  _ armaments were before him.  _ His _ war-plate. Silvered sigmarite, polished mirror-bright. His reflection stared back at him, smeared across metal, broad and dark and rust-haired.

Iskorion reached towards the mask. Sparks leapt at his first touch, coursed through him, made him gasp. And when they died the metal felt warm, like clothes dried in summer sun. His fingers drifted down to the pauldron, to the breastplate, and he frowned. The helmet had no halo. “This is not the armour of a Lord-Castellant,” he said, loud in the still armoury air.

“And you are not yet Lord-Castellant.” Lyconida’s voice nearly made Iskorion jump. “Your war-plate will receive its blessings once you’re finished with the trials.”

He turned and faced her. “Aye. The trials.” Nothing was decided before the trials, and he knew nothing of them. His future stood on shaky foundations.

“Do not look so glum, brother.” Lyconida stepped closer, and gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “You’ll be well taken care of. The instructors will want you to succeed.”

“I suppose so,” Iskorion muttered.

“Good! And now, if you’ll have me excused, I’ll leave you and your armour to get acquainted. I’ve my own panoply to find.” Iskorion didn’t excuse her. She was off before he had a chance to open his mouth, lost to the murk of the armoury.

He sighed and turned back to his armour. Piece by piece, he picked it off the stand, and piled it neatly on the floor. Beneath the war-plate, he found gambeson and chausses, all the same azure as his tunic. He pinched the hem of a sleeve, rolled it between his fingers, and found it soft. Tough - it wasn’t effortless, making his fingers meet through the cloth - but soft. 

Iskorion tied back his dreadlocks and pulled on the padding. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms, stepped back and forth. The sheer bulk of the gambeson did restrict him, but less than he’d expected. It flowed around his every movement, as if he wore clouds, rather than cloth. He shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the Sigmarabulum, wrought by the hands of one god to house another. This was wonder carved in stone and set in the heavens. Fine clothing was among the least of the miracles Iskorion had seen today. 

The armour still called to him, gentle but insistent. He knelt, and took up the nearest piece. A greave, one seamless piece of metal, sabaton dangling off the end. Seamless, until he held it. A mote of light sparked to life near the top, slid down the side. Behind it, sigmarite parted like cut cloth. The greave opened, quite on its own.

“Very well, then,” Iskorion heard himself say. He laid the greave against his shin, and gave it a pat. “Close, if you would be so kind.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than metal clacked and light flashed and the greave was whole around his lower leg. The sabaton, too, scuttled into place on its own.

He stood, wiggled his ankle, kicked in the air. Not a single piece shifted out of place. Everything in order, Iskorion put on the other greave, then the poleyns, then the cuisses. In mere minutes, he stood fully encased in sigmarite, all without the aid of a servant. He flexed his hands, hearing the clicks of the gauntlets shifting. The armour fit like an old cloak, worn to the shape of his shoulders. Iskorion blew out a breath, air whistling through the mouth-slit of his mask.

There he stood, high above the Realms, sigmarite clad. A Stormcast Eternal.

A few bars of a jaunty whistled march broke Iskorion’s reverie. He turned, saw Lyconida standing a few paces away, ornately armed and armoured, as befitted a Lord-Celestant. She held her helmet under an arm, leaving her smirking face bare.

“I make a formidable first impression, do I not?” Iskorion said, wry. “First I wrestle a water spout, and now I stand transfixed by simple armour.”

Lyconida stepped forward and rapped her gauntlet against his breastplate. “Everyone feels what you now feel. How long has it been since you woke? An hour? Less?” She turned her face up, catching his eyes. “The course of your life is forever changed. It’s daunting, I know. It’s a great many things happening all at once. ‘Where am I? What is this place? Why can I not remember? Who are these folk?’” She pulled her hand back. “You’re handling this admirably, brother. You’ve not screamed yet.”

Iskorion chuckled. “I only scream on the inside.”

Lyconida began to laugh, but was cut off. A hideous wail tore through the armoury, despairing, grating on the edge of Iskorion’s hearing. He whirled towards the door.

“Some poor soul’s escaped the Anvil…” Lyconida said with a sigh.

Another wail. Stronger. Closer. And it wasn’t the only sound. Iskorion heard the crackle of lightning, felt a tremor through the floor. “What should we do?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “Is it a danger?”

Another wail. The smell of ozone filled the air. The hair rose on his arms.

“Stand back, and let the Sacrosancts return it to the Anvil,” Lyconida said, grave faced.

Another wail. The door rattled on its hinges. Another tremor, too. Sigmarite armour shook on the stands.

“Are you certain-?”

The armoury exploded into sound and fury.

Iskorion flung a hand before his eyes, felt debris clatter against his armour, staggered two steps back. The wailing was constant now. The crackling was everywhere. The armoury grew hot. Hotter, with each passing moment.

He dared to lower his hand, and what he saw seared his eyes. Lightning - pure, blazing lightning - barely kept in a human shape, as if it struggled against bonds. A lightning-gheist, faceless, save for three darkened indentations near the center of its mass, like a child’s clay sculpture. It staggered down the armoury, tendrils lashing against the walls and floor alike, still howling with rage and grief as racks of armour crashed to the ground. Out the corners of his eyes, Iskorion saw shapes moving, running. He heard boots against the floor, shouted warnings.

The Sacrosanct Chamber was on its way. All others should stand back.

Lyconida’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. “Move, brother!” she urged, sword already in hand. “They can be confused. Dangerous.”

The lightning-gheist stalked closer on crooked legs. Armour glowed red-hot wherever it touched. The scent of molten metal filled his nose, and the helm was suddenly cloying. It muffled all sound. The eyeholes felt strange. He’d see better without it. He’d be able to spot an escape route. He raised his hands towards his face.

“Damned fool!” Lyconida roared. “Get back!”

The helmet clanked to the floor, and the lightning-gheist slowed, just steps away. Something changed within it. Bolts drew into the greater mass, drew into shape. It grew more human by the heartbeat. Tattered, flickering around the edges, but human. It had a face, now. A face contorted with pain.

A face Iskorion knew.

He knew it, but couldn’t name it. Certainty danced away from him, like smoke between his fingers. He remembered a brilliant sky-blue, then brown like finely carved wood. The colour of their skin? Their eyes? The lightning-gheist stared back at him, shivering once, almost like a sob. Iskorion felt his heart twist. Where did this pain come from? Who was this face?

Lightning popped and crackled around him, skittering along the edges of his armor, but he hardly felt it. Slow, dream-slow, he reached a hand towards the lightning-gheist. Burning skin joined the myriad stenches in the air, but he paid it no mind. The pain was distant. Unimportant.

“‘Tis all right,” he said softly, as if to a spooked mount. “‘Tis all right, brother.”

The lightning-gheist’s wailing quieted. Its mouth moved more slowly, more controlled. Was it trying to speak?

A white gauntlet burst from its chest, clutching a fistful of silvery essence. The lightning-gheist’s face melted away, leaving only its first, crude visage. And the wails regained their strength. And its limbs lashed out with renewed fury.

But it didn’t touch Iskorion. 

“I name thee Borotheas!” bellowed the sacrosanct, pulling back his fist, still tied to the lightning-gheist with silvery tethers. “Knight-Zephyros of the Gale-strikes! Heed me now, and obey! I name thee and bid thee cease, in the name of those who forged us!” With each word, he stepped back, yanking the lightning-gheist with him. It howled in protest - anguish, to Iskorion’s ears - the sacrosanct’s grip was strong. It shrank in on itself, its bolts weakening.

Save for one. One final tendril of lightning stretched back to Iskorion, like a desperate hand, grasping for solace. To no avail. Unrelenting, the sacrosanct hauled the lightning-gheist away, leaving Iskorion standing amongst scattered suits of armour.

The armoury was dark, now that the lightning-gheist was gone.

Lyconida elbowed him in the side. “When I say stand back, stand back,” she growled, before sighing. “Are you unhurt?”

“Aye.” Iskorion’s voice caught in his throat, and he coughed, nodding his head. “Aye, I am well. But what shall happen to...to Borotheas?”

“He’ll be reforged properly, and placed with his Chamber.” Lyconida placed a hand on his shoulder. “Strike it from your mind, brother. It’s unlikely you’ll see him again, and even so, he’ll not remember this.”

Iskorion nodded again, but felt his heart clench anew. It shouldn’t have bothered him, not really. But something worried at the back of his mind, like a stone in his boot, or a buzzing gnat. Something felt wrong about the entire affair, to see this Borotheas suffer so. He squared his shoulders, coughed again. He’d been commanded to forget it, and he’d do his best to do so. Bending down, he picked his helmet back up. There was a scorch mark scrawled across the mask, but the damage didn’t look deep.

He swept his eyes across the wreckage of the armoury. Piles of wood still smoked, and molten metal was starting to solidify. Other Hallowed Knights were already picking through it, salvaging what they could, carrying away what they could not. “Is this commonplace?” he asked.

“Thankfully not,” said Lyconida, sheathing her sword. “The others seem to have a handle on repairs. There’s little need for us here, and you’ve a Chamber to meet.”

“And trials to begin.” Iskorion wiped a smudge off his helmet and pulled it on. “Shall we be on our way, then?”

“Aye, we shall. Come, brother.” Lyconida strode out the door, and as always, Iskorion found himself hurrying after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, this fic isn't dead. Let's hope it stays not dead, and there'll be another chapter.
> 
> TheHatMeister did a few chunks of dialogue and most of the lightning-gheist sequence. Go praise him. Couldn't be writing this without him.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so. If I can get my ass in gear and actually write, this is gonna be the kick-off for lots fun and adventuring and stuff through the Mortal Realms. I'll try my best.
> 
> Wish me luck.


End file.
